The Singles (11 page)

He wasn’t kidding when he said he didn’t dance around the subject. And he was utterly serious—I could feel his heart rate pick up beneath my palm touching his chest.

“I—”

“Are you scared of me?” he demanded.

“A little.” My breathing became a harsh tremble as he stroked the delicate column of my throat, and I dug my fingers into the front of his shirt. “A
lot
.”

“You shouldn’t be.” He withdrew his arm from my back, pulling his other hand from my throat reluctantly. “There are no strings with me, Lizzie. But for now ... let’s just eat. If I keep touching you, I won’t be able to stop.”

But when lunch was over and I headed back to Emerson & Taylor, feeling dizzy from being in Oliver’s presence for so long, I told myself just how wrong he was when he told me there were no strings when it came to him.

“Which is why I need to hurry the hell up and find some answers,” I told myself firmly, making a beeline for Margaret’s office with an empty USB drive grasped firmly in the palm of my hand. Hopefully, Pen would be able to find something that would help us because the longer I stayed around these people—the more I let myself get involved with Oliver—the more tangled this mess became.

*

W
hen I presented Pen with the USB drive, she asked me to bear with her until Monday, but she gave me the bad news a day early. Margaret’s desktop was squeaky clean. “
Nothing
?” Because she’d dragged me with her to a twenty-four hour gym that was around the corner from my apartment, I spoke in a hushed voice. “Nothing at all?”

“She must keep all her dirty shit on her laptop. Unless you count her searches for herself, and some socialite Oliver apparently used to date, her office computer is freakishly empty.”

I tore my eyes away from the
Walking Dead
marathon playing on the tiny screen above my elliptical, creasing my brows together as I faced her. “Oh? Which woman?”

“Your attempt at sounding nonchalant sucks so hard,” she said dryly as she pushed a damp strand of dark hair off her forehead. “But, since it might be important—Finley Scott.” The name didn’t ring a bell, and I grabbed my phone from its spot inside the machine’s cup holder. “Ugh, just
screw
the man already. You’re seconds away from falling on your face just so you can look up his ex-girlfriend. That’s kind of sad, sweetie.”

I narrowed my dark eyes into a glare as my fingers tapped across the smooth keypad. “He’s my—” My words caught in the back of my throat as several images of Finley Scott popped up on my screen. With her chin-length, shiny mahogany hair, startling hazel eyes, and Yoga body, she was hot. Outrageously hot. But what the hell did I expect when it came to Oliver?

“If you were about to give me that stepbrother crap, I’m going to knock you off that damn machine myself,” Pen stated hotly, rubbing her towel over her face before tossing it over her shoulder. “
I’m
more related to you than he is.”

I returned my phone back to the tiny compartment on the elliptical, adjusted the incline, and pumped my legs even harder than before. “So now what?”

“You want my opinion on Oliver?”

“I’m talking about his mom,” I said between clenched teeth.

“Ahh.” I couldn’t miss the grin that moved across her face. “I’m going to work on getting into her laptop, but in the meantime, you need to figure out how to get into her house.”

“Great,” I whispered under my breath.

Pen turned to me abruptly. “You can do this. You’re her personal assistant, so she’s bound to send you there for something eventually. Figure out a way to speed that up.”

“I’ll work on it.”

“Don’t worry, if there’s anything to figure out, we’ll get it.”

“And if there’s not?” I asked miserably. Though I hated to admit it to Pen, there had been many times where I doubted myself for coming to L.A.

“Well, at least it got you out of Vegas for a while. You can’t tell me you haven’t enjoyed taking ... a break.” She was quiet for a moment, and then she said so softly I could barely hear her over the hum of the exercise machines, “August is helping me get a copy of your father’s will.”

I squeezed my eyes closed and hated that the mention of my dad’s last will and testament automatically brought to mind the conversation I’d had with Margaret’s lawyer seven years ago. “I’ve seen it before.”

“But you don’t have a copy of your own,” she reminded me. “And
now
you have me. I’m not about to let some lawyer scare me into backing down.”

Opening my eyes, I laughed because it was the only thing I could do not to burst into tears. “No, you’re bypassing lawyers and a paperwork trail so you can look at it.”

Pen lifted her shoulders, making an unconcerned face when her eyes dropped to her sweaty skin. “Yeah, well, there’s that too.”

––––––––

T
he next morning, I walked in to my office to find a pleasant surprise. The event planner coordinating Margaret’s fourth annual Halloween Charity Ball had left me a voicemail over the weekend. Although she sounded somewhat irritated, her message still took what felt like a hundred pounds of pressure off my chest.

“Ms. Connelly? This is Natalie Roche, from Natalie Roche Events. I received your messages, and I’ll be able to accommodate your needs. I can meet you at ten-fifteen Monday morning in the Heritage Ballroom. If you can’t make it, please call my cell. Once again the address is—”

Sliding Margaret’s coffee to the edge of my desk, I grabbed my LCD tablet and jotted down the address. I replayed the voicemail to make sure I got it right before hanging up my work phone and texting everything I’d written down to myself. It was 9:28 now, which meant I’d have to leave to meet Natalie as soon as I was finished checking in with the stepmonster. Balancing her latte, my purse, and the folder full of information she’d requested last week, I flipped off the light switch and went across the hall to her office.

She was already behind her desk, looking formidable in a white tailored suit that only Margaret Manning-Emerson could pull off in October, and her blond, highlighted hair was twisted into an elegant knot at the nape of her slim neck.

“Did you enjoy your trip to New York?”

“Did you rearrange the Paris trip like I asked you to?” she countered, referring to one of the instructions she’d given me in the email she’d sent while she was away last week.

I lowered her coffee to the silver coaster by her right hand and the folder next to her desktop monitor, eyeballing the laptop she was hastily pecking away on without pause. God, I couldn’t wait to get a look at what she kept hidden away on that thing. Dragging my attention from the second computer, I pointed to the folder. 

“Everything for the Paris trip is right here. Also, the hotel upgraded you to the presidential suite free of charge after I let them know what you said about your last stay there.”

“Good enough.” Although I’d hoped I wouldn’t be thinking about him so soon, hearing her mutter those two words instantly reminded me of Oliver. I thought back to what he’d told me last week in his office, about her reaction to his speech problems when he was a child, and I fought to keep my gaze neutral. To keep myself from slamming her computer screen closed, regardless of what flesh might be in the way.

“Any progress with Roche?” she questioned.

“I’m actually headed out to meet her now.” Pressing the point home, I reached into the side of my used Prada bag and fished out my car keys. “She’s expecting me to meet her at the venue in less than an hour.”

Margaret’s head popped up, her fingers hovering motionless above the laptop. “What did you say?”

The smile I offered her was the first genuine one I’d managed since stepping foot in her office, even if there was an underlying smugness to it. “Natalie left me a message over the weekend and confirmed that she’d meet me this morning,” I explained as I started to back up to the double doors. I was still a little stunned about that myself, considering last week the event planner had sworn up and down that meeting today wasn’t a possibility.

My boss blinked once, twice, and then a third time, and I thought I would explode from the delight rolling through me. Sliding her chair closer to the desk, she tilted her thin body forward. “Make sure you record it on your phone.”

“Excuse me?”

“Make. Sure. You. Record. It.” She swallowed a drink of her latte, the fact that it was still steaming hot not seeming to bother her one bit. “When I get the chance this week, I’d like to take a look. Have her explain where everything will go. This is a different location from previous years, and I’m absolutely kicking myself for letting Oliver convince me to change everything around.”

I froze the moment she said his name, and I prayed she couldn’t see my reaction. Then I tried to convince myself that my response was only because this was the first time I’d heard of Oliver’s involvement with the event.

“Is he co-sponsoring?” I asked nonchalantly.

“The Heritage is owned by Manning.” She returned her focus to her laptop, her manicured fingers beating a rhythm across the keys. “When you come back to the office this afternoon, I need you to start organizing lunch for fourteen to be delivered tomorrow. Do you think you can handle that?”

“Definitely. Do you have a particular restaurant in mind?”

Releasing a hiss of irritation, Margaret looked up from her screen. “Weren’t you an assistant before this?” she demanded, and when I replied that I was, she snapped, “Then you should realize I’m too busy to go through menus. If the menu is in the approved stack in your office, it’s acceptable. Surprise me!”

“Will do,” I commented through a jaw so tense, it made the muscles in my face ache. With every name in the book attached to my stepmother’s name and hurtling through my thoughts, I was desperate to leave the building before I screwed up and let one of them become audible.

I didn’t stop moving until I was in the lobby, and an accented female voice called out my name as I waited for an elevator to go down to the parking garage. I looked behind me to see Stella striding my way, her black hair bouncing around the off-the-shoulder neckline of her striped shirt as she closed the distance between us.

“You look chipper,” I commented when she stepped beside me and all I could smell was her jasmine perfume.

“And
you
”—she stared me up and down slowly, curiously, and then tapped her finger against her lips—“well, you look like a woman possessed.”

“Headed to a meeting with Natalie Roche.”

When the elevator opened, we both stepped in the warm car, Stella moving her head from side to side. “That poor woman won’t know what hit her. Did
she
send you armed with a list of demands and questions?”

Recounting all five minutes of my talk with Margaret, my nostrils flared. “I’m supposed to record the entire meeting so she can take a look at it later.”

The marketing manager fought to keep the smile from cracking through her professional mask as the doors open and we stepped out of the elevator and beneath the dim lights of the parking garage. “Interested in having company?”

“Are you loaning yourself out to me?”

She reached into her purse, her eyebrows knitting together as she searched for what I guessed were her keys. “I was on my way out to burn some time before my one-thirty doctor’s appointment.” She shrugged. “I’m a bad,
bad
employee.”

“Hence, the chipper smile,” I stated. “But yes, I’d love to have some company.”

As soon as I told her where we were going, she insisted on taking her car, a silver BMW 4-series convertible that she let the top down on since it was sunny and mid-seventies. Though she seemed at ease with the wind whipping her hair around her artfully made-up face, I grabbed a hairband from my bag and scooped my own into a high, messy bun. While she drove, she made small talk, which gradually improved the sour mood Margaret had managed to conjure in just a few minutes this morning.

“So the foster charity event—what are you dressing as?” At the shift of my eyebrow, Stella added, “In case you were thinking of skipping out on Margaret’s function, cancel your plans now. She’ll skin you alive if you’re not there.” She touched her chest. “
I
ordered a Catwoman costume, but I’m trying to figure out if it’s too risqué.”

“Depends,” I said as she slammed on the brakes at a stoplight. Giving my seatbelt a tug, I made sure it was secure. “Anne Hathaway Catwoman or Halle Berry?”

Her mouth twitched. “Anne Hathaway.”

“You should be fine then. And to answer your question, to be honest, I haven’t really given my own costume any thought.”

“Could have sworn you said Halloween was your favorite.”

“It is. Don’t worry, I’ll find something good before then.” Though, when I stopped to think about it, I was probably running out of time to put something unique together. Last year, Pen and I had gone out as Sofie Fatale and The Bride from
Kill Bill
. It had been my favorite costume in years, since the days when my mother had helped me make the perfect outfit, but I could already picture Margaret’s disapproving glare at my blood splattered wedding gown and fake baby bump.

Sexy schoolgirl and Captain Hooker were probably out of the question, too.

Pulling her BMW into the Heritage Los Angeles at Beverly Hills, Stella parked by the ballroom entrance—which was utterly unique since the venue’s walls were made entirely of privacy glass. There were cars on either side of us, a gold Land Rover and a sleek black sports car, and my mouth went dry when I realized I’d seen that car before.

On the other side of those tinted windows sat six-feet, two-inches of the most distracting man I’d ever met in my life. I shoved all thoughts of costumes from my head and focused on the problem at hand—the fact that Oliver was here for some reason.

Forcing me to think about him.

“Hmm,” Stella murmured, and I heard the click of her seatbelt as she unhooked it. “Wonder if
she
sent him to make sure you could operate the camera.”

I reached for the door handle, squeezing it tightly. Even though I knew she’d only been teasing, I muttered under my breath, “
She’d
hire a damn camera crew before that happened.”